


Adaptive Performance

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Simulation, Sticky Sex, Virtual Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 17:05:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3142097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is all Knock Out's fault. And Ratchet can't stop thinking about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adaptive Performance

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Diplomatic Liaisons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/440616) by [dracoqueen22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22). 



> The interfacing here is another one of my weird mixes of plug and play/simulation/virtual/sticky. But it's all in good fun. Enjoy!

Ratchet can't stop thinking about it.   
  
Oh, Knock Out is never far from his thoughts to begin with, but it's not the Decepticon that has him up in the middle of the night, frame heated and hungry. It's not even the memory of their encounter, the little secret that Ratchet has kept for himself.   
  
No. It's the thought of sharing it with Optimus that has Ratchet's engine revving at inappropriate times. It has his optics traveling the long and lean form of their leader, imagining Optimus looming over him, optics bright, as he pushes into Ratchet's valve with what must be an impressive spike.   
  
Primus. The surges of static are getting ridiculous. Ratchet ruffles his plating, trying to dispel the charge that threatens to rise. The cover to his interface ports jutters, cord knocking against it. His subconscious as well as his conscious are intrigued.   
  
How would Optimus' coding interpret Project Earth?  
  
Ratchet can't stop thinking about it.   
  
Getting Prime to the berth is no difficult task. All he has to do is approach Optimus on a good day at a good time and suggest they go horizontal. Optimus is always amenable to a nice, relaxing frag. Just like pretty much everyone in the base.   
  
Bulkhead.   
  
Ratchet shivers before he can stop himself, hands clenching briefly on the ground bridge controls.   
  
He'll bet Bulkhead's coding would translate Project Earth into something rather magnificent as well. And he has no doubt Bumblebee has already coded his own version of Knock Out's program, kinky little minibot that he is. He wonders how Arcee would fare, if Knock Out has accounted for the minute differences in a femme's coding and if he's maintained the human sexual dimorphism or not.   
  
Probably not, Ratchet assumes. Why limit the pleasure, after all?   
  
Ratchet snorts and cycles a ventilation, trying to bend his attention back to his work. But there Optimus goes again, walking into view just in his periphery. He's slowly pacing, focused on a datapad, and Ratchet's not sure what's so important only that he shouldn't disturb it.   
  
Slag but he wants to.   
  
The kids aren't here. Bulkhead's in recharge. Arcee and Bee are out running a patrol. Wheeljack's who the frag knows where.  
  
Now's the time. But he can't.   
  
Ratchet grinds his denta and stares at the monitor, trying to ignore the heat slowly winding through his systems. He shifts his weight, listens to the tiny sound of a gear in need of tuning. It's negligible. Will probably only affect his performance by 0.002 percent. Which means he'll have to attend to it eventually. Later. When his systems aren't trying to race toward an overload that isn't happening.   
  
He really can't stop thinking about it.   
  
This is all Knock Out's fault. He'll bet all the energon he has that the Decepticon surgeon would be smirking himself silly right now.   
  
He wonders if Knock Out is taking a drive right now. No. He's not that desperate.   
  
He's curious, that's what he is. Optimus is a large, attractive mech. Only one larger would be Megatron.   
  
Ratchet's vents blast heated air and he hunches his shoulders, sending out override after override. He's too old to be this... horny. Human term, perfectly apt for the situation. Human simulation, human term. It fits.   
  
I like big mechs, apparently, Ratchet thinks and though this isn't news to him, he ought to know better than to have second thoughts about Megatron. Let alone first. Even if Megatron is large. And impressive. And has large hands with claws just right to slip between transformation seams, stroking the cables beneath.   
  
It's probably proportional, Ratchet reasons. That's more or less how it works for humans if Knock Out had modeled it after the humans, well, that's logic. Then again, Knock Out had made modifications.   
  
No reason to limit the pleasure, he'd said. And the perverted Decepticon had probably made specific modifications for specific mechs, too. Like Breakdown, also a big mech.   
  
Primus.   
  
Ratchet shakes his helm and offlines his optics, resting his hands on the console. He has to get this under control, frag it. He can't be standing here, thinking about mechs he has no business thinking about, or fantasizing about things that aren't going to happen or can't happen. Or at least, not in public. He needs to be thinking about these things in the berth, not in the command center, in front of the ground bridge, where he's supposed to be recalibrating the systems for better energon efficiency.   
  
“Ratchet?”   
  
There's a hand on his shoulder and he all but jumps out of his plating. “What?” Ratchet demands, optics snapping back on as he whirls toward Optimus and dear Primus, there's that concerned look. Prime is leaning close to him, all tempting energy field and curiosity and Ratchet's vents whoosh heat.   
  
“You seem distracted.” Optimus says and he straightens, taking back his hand. Ratchet lets himself mourn the loss for as long as it takes to get his traitorous frame back under control.   
  
It's an embarrassingly long second.   
  
“I'm busy,” Ratchet says with a touch of growl, trying to slick his plating back down but now that Optimus is close, it seems content to remain fluffed as though a quiet invitation.   
  
_Come and touch, Optimus. Oh, and while you're at it, let's swap cables. I've got this nice little simulation that I think we should try..._  
  
Optimus looks at him, field echoing disbelief. “Perhaps you should take a break then. You work yourself too hard.”   
  
He all but swallows his next words, processor supplying all the different ways he could 'take a break' or 'work himself too hard.' Apparently, briefly perusing human porn had been a bad idea.   
  
This is all Knock Out's fault.   
  
“Yeah, well, there's a lot of work to be done,” Ratchet retorts and he resolutely returns his attention to the screen, hands on the console but for the life of him, he can't remember what he was doing, where he left off, or how to continue.   
  
Optimus makes a noncommittal noise and then, of all things, rests his hands on Ratchet's shoulders. The sound that emerges from his engine is a pathetic whine and Ratchet's knees wobble, static snapping at his leader's fingers.   
  
“Work,” Optimus repeats, and there's humor in his vocals now. Humor and no small amount of understanding. “I do believe work is the last thing on your processor.” His field nudges Ratchet's, open and inviting.   
  
Both of Ratchet's interface panels pop open, cables spilling out. It would be embarrassing if he hadn't passed that point several lines of conversation ago.   
  
Optimus' rumble of amusement is more arousing than it ought to be.   
  
Ratchet shakes his helm, gathers his courage and turns to face Optimus. “Fine. I can admit when I'm beaten. I don't suppose you have the time to spare to berth a poor, overheated medic?”   
  
Optimus laughs, a wholly attractive sound in itself, and pulls Ratchet into a crushing embrace that causes a delicious slide of metal on metal. Friction, lots of nice friction, and Ratchet shivers, clutching at Optimus' armor, his face smushed against a pair of windshields that scent of cleanser. No wonder Optimus is so shiny.   
  
“I think I have a moment,” Optimus says, one hand sliding down to tease Ratchet's data port, fingers drawing out and fondling his data cable.   
  
His knees weaken again. And Ratchet thinks, this is good, too. He won't mind Optimus pinning him to any surface, surging pleasure into him until he overloads. He certainly won't mind those hands mapping every inch of his plating. He doesn't need simulation to be satisfied. He certainly never needed it before.   
  
He's just... curious. Yes, still curious.   
  
He could ask, couldn't he? The worst Optimus can do is turn him down and it's Optimus. He won't be cruel about it.   
  
“Optimus...?” Ratchet hesitates, even as moan builds in his vocalizer. Optimus is rubbing the tip of his cable between two dextrous fingers, teasing the sensitive prong at the end.   
  
“You seem to have something on your mind, old friend,” Optimus says, a gleam of teasing in his optics as charge spits from the end of Ratchet's cable.   
  
Ratchet groans, his hands grasping those beautifully narrow hips and thinking that Optimus would be a beautiful dancer. He's going to go for it. It's all he can think about it.   
  
“I...” He pauses, restructures his request. He feels as eager as a newbuild recently discovered the seal on his port. “You wouldn't, perhaps, be interested in simulation?” He winces, waiting, feeling as though he's just admitted some sordid kink.   
  
Optimus stills before his field suddenly flares with heat. “I must admit that I am unfamiliar with the practice,” he says, but the twisting of Ratchet's cable continues unimpeded. “I am, however, willing to experiment.”   
  
Dear Primus.   
  
Charge spills from Ratchet's ports.   
  
A virgin in more ways than one. Is this how Knock Out felt when first introducing the program to Ratchet? This exciting and yet wholly arousing feeling that seems to throb through every inch of Ratchet's interface?   
  
Ratchet reboots his vocalizer. “All right,” he says, words mercifully free of static. “So... your berth or mine?”   
  
Optimus laughs. It's enough to chase some of the embarrassment from Ratchet's field.   
  
The answer, Ratchet discovers, is Optimus' berth because it is, by design, larger than Ratchet's and easily fits two. And Optimus, master of expression, presses Ratchet to it, hands roaming and lips hungry, his actions giving truth to a need expertly concealed up until now.   
  
For a moment, Ratchet forgets about simulation and Knock Out and what Optimus' spike might look and feel like. It's enough to be pressed beneath Optimus' weight, feeling the tingling caress of Optimus' field, and the exploratory strokes of those broad, dextrous fingers.   
  
He moans, he hooks his fingers in Optimus' armor, and his cords tap at Optimus' ports, seeking connection as though he hasn't interfaced in centuries.   
  
“You will have to guide me,” Optimus says, his ex-vents a wash of heat against Ratchet's frame. “I know of it in theory but not in practice.”   
  
“It's not astrophysics,” Ratchet replies and tries to throttle back, regain coherence from the overwhelming need taking over his higher processor functions. “It's just connection and intent. You should have a base program in your archives.”   
  
Optimus' engine rumbles. “Connection,” he repeats and he reaches for Ratchet's cables, sliding them into his ports with a snap of static. Pleasure washes through Ratchet's system in a wave.   
  
Ratchet shudders and strokes a hand over Optimus' ventrum, teasing the panels concealing his cables. “Mutual connection.”   
  
“Ah.”   
  
The covers spiral open, Ratchet's fingers teasing the charged connectors before he draws them to his own aching ports. He shivers as Optimus connects with him, now aware peripherally of Optimus and the desire enveloping his Prime.   
  
“I have a program,” Ratchet says, optics sliding shut as he tries to focus, but it's hard when he can feel Optimus above him and beside him and at the edge of his awareness. “If you don't mind.”   
  
Optimus' helm nuzzles against his, a susurrus of metal on metal that makes Ratchet ache. “I put myself in your very capable hands, old friend.”   
  
Well.   
  
If it's not broke, don't fix it, Ratchet thinks, and calls up the familiar.   
  
_Initiating Iacon simulation. Invitation extended to Autobot Leader Optimus Prime. Invitation accepted. Simulation loading..._  
  
Ratchet vents, in and out, and then the feeling of the berth beneath him vanishes, the majority of his consciousness drawn inward, toward the virtual plane. Should there be an emergency, the program knows to cancel itself as a safety measure.   
  
And then he's back in Iacon, a room similar to what he'd shared with Knock Out but not the same. His awareness fills his virtual avatar, identical to his true form save for the equipment hidden in his pelvic array.   
  
Optimus phases into view, gleaming metal, bright red and blue and silver, those broad shoulders and narrow hips and Ratchet finds himself as desperate as a younger mech.   
  
Optimus looks around and is drawn by the window, staring out at the lights and the city. Ratchet had chosen a daycycle, back when Cybertron had a sun, and yes, he's old enough to remember Cybertron having a sun. Orion Pax wouldn't, but the Primes in that Matrix of his must remember.  
  
“Iacon,” Optimus murmurs.   
  
“I was sparked here,” Ratchet says.   
  
“As was I.”   
  
Ratchet joins him at the window. “You? Or Orion Pax?”   
  
“Both of us,” Optimus says and then rests a hand on Ratchet's shoulder. “But I believe we are here, so to speak, for a purpose?”   
  
“I can change the location?”   
  
“No.” A smile graces Optimus' face. “This is fine.”   
  
A relief. A bullet dodged.   
  
Ratchet cycles a ventilation and draws a single cord, offering it to Optimus. “For transferring the secondary program.”   
  
Optimus doesn't hesitate, accepting the cord and situating it in his wrist port. Ratchet transfers Knock Out's file over, but not before carefully editing the origins of the program. Optimus probably wouldn't fault him a little interfactional fun, but it's still as embarrassing as the Pit.   
  
He watches as Optimus' virtual avatar flickers, clearly applying the parameters of the program. Optimus tips his helm as though considering the changes, almost absently handing Ratchet back his cable.   
  
“Should I... feel different? Given the designation of the program, I had expected an organic construction,” Optimus says, and then he takes his hands and runs them down his frame in a manner than should be fragging illegal.   
  
Heat washes through Ratchet. He groans, clenches his hands into fists, feeling his interface protocols online with loud pings. Moisture gathers in his pelvic array, spike pulsing a beat of interest behind his panel.   
  
“There's a difference,” Ratchet manages, all without falling over Optimus like a mech who has no dignity. “I'll show you.” And he approaches Optimus, hands rising to cover Optimus', feeling the warm emanating from Optimus' own frame.   
  
He pushes closer, Optimus backtracks, and then he's almost against the window, the lights of Iacon a nice backdrop behind him. Perfect.   
  
Ratchet's glossa makes a quick swipe over his lips. “It is based on organics,” he admits, guiding Optimus' hands lower, achingly slow, letting them trace the curve of his own armor. “But doesn't restrict itself to their dimorphic rules.”   
  
Their hands come to a rest, palms flat on Optimus' pelvis, fingers splayed to encompass the breadth of it.   
  
“Two panels,” Ratchet says, attempting to sound clinical and failing miserable. “One housing your spike, for penetration, and the other your valve, for reception.”   
  
A shudder races over Optimus' plating as his fingers brush the heated metal. “Am I correct in assuming you have a preference then?” Optimus asks, his vocals aching with need.   
  
Ratchet works his intake. “As the one new to this, I offer you first choice.” Because when it comes down it, Ratchet will be satisfied either way.   
  
“Being that I have no experience, I shall bow to you,” Optimus replies, a twinkle in his optics that hints to the mech he'd been before the Matrix.   
  
A mech Ratchet has always and continues to desire.   
  
“In that case...” Ratchet lets go of Optimus' hands and presses their frames together, mindful of the height difference but thoroughly enjoying the sensation of heated metal against heated metal. “Allow me.”   
  
He works his intake and lets his hands wander the length of Optimus' back, briefly flitting over the well-shaped aft before curving back around those narrow hips to splay across an interface panel, blossoming with heat. Optimus may not know what this program does, but his frame is ready and willing to respond to it.   
  
A surge of desire makes Ratchet's knees wobble. Ideas, so many ideas, crop up one right after the other. They'll have to do this again, he realizes as he cups the protective panel on Optimus' pelvic plating.   
  
Over and over and over...  
  
Optimus shudders, leaning back against the reinforced glass of the window. Did his knees wobble, too? So it would seem, judging by the sharp pulse of his energy field, the way it reaches for Ratchet's, grabs hold, and refuses to let go.   
  
Ratchet works his intake and then taps Optimus' panel. “Open,” he says after clearing his vocalizer of static.   
  
“How...?”  
  
“There's a command string in your...”  
  
Ah. He found it. Ratchet cycles a ventilation as the panels open beneath his touch, a spike pressuring into his hand as the sweet scent of lubricant fills the air. And, ah, there's the benefit to being the one offering the program. Optimus' spike is long and thick, appropriately sized for his frame, but customized to Ratchet's taste.   
  
He blames that on Knock Out, too.  
  
Ratchet curls his fingers around the heated metal, tracing the spiral of biolights glowing energon-blue at him. Optimus makes a low noise in his chassis, and there's a scrape of metal on glass, his fingers scratching at the window.   
  
“Maybe the berth...?” Optimus suggests, his hips performing a rather attractive judder into the tunnel of Ratchet's hand.   
  
“This coming from the Prime who had no issues with the wall in the main command chamber,” Ratchet teases, giving that lovely spike another stroke before he let his hand wander fingers exploring the wet opening of an untouched valve.   
  
Optimus makes a strangled sound that goes straight to Ratchet's own spike, pulsing behind the cover. The amount of effort it takes to restrain himself is within the realm of ridiculous.  
  
Ratchet's fingers circle the rim, the initial flush of lubricant dampening his digits. He can hear the minute fluctuations of tiny mechanisms clenching and unclenching in preparation. The sensors in his fingertips pick out each one present in the rim and he caresses them one by one, feeling the valve opening flutter in delight.   
  
He suddenly understands the expression of a mouth going dry with want.   
  
“That, my friend, was opportunity.” Optimus' ventilations burst heat on the window, making it fog. “And lack of amenities. Which we do not have here.”   
  
“Mm hm.” Ratchet circles the rim of Optimus' valve one more time before dipping a finger into it, testing the untried depths.  
  
He is rewarded with a full frame shiver, a sagging in Optimus' knees, and a blast of arousal through their mingled fields. Warm lubricant coats his finger. There is nothing quite so intoxicating. Ratchet's glossa flicks over his lips.   
  
“Yes,” he says. “Maybe a berth is a good idea.” Before he does something silly like tackle Optimus to the floor when there is a functional berth two steps away.   
  
His finger, however, has other ideas, exploring as it is the stretch of Optimus' valve. Lubricant eases the way and Optimus flexes so nicely around him, enough that Ratchet feels safe to add a second finger. He remembers how it had been to pin Knock Out down and frag the Decepticon out of him.   
  
He has a sudden urge to repeat the experience though of course, not with Knock Out.   
  
“You, ah, do not appear to be moving.” Optimus' spike bobs and looses a drip of pre-fluid as though to reprimand Ratchet for the lack of touching.   
  
Ratchet barks a laugh. “Oh, I'm moving. Just not my legs.” And he crooks his fingers, brushing a sensor deep in Optimus' valve that makes him quiver. The sweet tang of lubricant fills Ratchet's olfactory sensor. So many details! Kudos to Knock Out for going all out.   
  
Optimus sags against the window. “I noticed.” One hand lands on Ratchet's shoulder, a dance of charge leaping from his substructure and into Ratchet's. “Do you wish me to beg?”   
  
“The thought has crossed my mind.” Ratchet grins and leans closer, his fingers working deeper, activating every sensor node he can remember and a few new ones. Calipers grasp at his fingers in entreaty, lubricant soaking his digits and and dripping down, spattering his wrist.   
  
Primus.   
  
Actually, he thinks this window will suit just fine.   
  
He draws air through his intakes, the scent of Optimus' arousal so thick in the air it fills his vents. His spike knocks at his panel, eager enough to hurt, the edge of discomfort.  
  
Optimus shudders, his optics brightening with desire. Both hands rest on Ratchet's shoulders, flexing and unflexing, betraying the shiver in his frame. Lubricant trickles down Optimus' thighs as Ratchet adds a third finger, which should be more than enough. But there's something attractive about the sight of Optimus Prime shuddering and shaking, at the mercy of his fingers.   
  
Ratchet's free hand rests on Optimus' hip, fingers teasing into the plating gaps and stroking cables beneath. Charge spits against his digits, alighting the delicate sensors.   
  
“Perhaps there is cause behind the 'Doctor of Doom' moniker,” Optimus rumbles, his hips rolling into Ratchet's fingers, his spike dripping prefluid to the floor.   
  
Ratchet chuckles. “Are you calling me a tease?”   
  
“Yes,” Optimus moans and his helm tips back against the window with a ringing note. Blue optics half-shutter, a dim blue glow testament to the arousal surely singing through Optimus' circuits.   
  
Ratchet grins and crooks his fingers, rewarded with the sight of Optimus arching toward him, ventilations huffing heat. “You do put on quite the show,” he says.   
  
“Ratchet,” Optimus groans his name, hands pulling Ratchet closer in a plea for attention that shoots straight to Ratchet's spike.   
  
It onlines with a near audible ping, his panel slides open, and his spike emerges fully-pressurized. Ratchet had taken the time to program a redesign after his time with Knock Out and now his spike is more to his own tastes, white with red biolights and a tasteful ring of nubs around the head, sure to satisfy those pesky and hard to reach deep nodes.   
  
“Fine,” Ratchet breathes and taps Optimus' left hip, withdrawing his fingers from Optimus' valve. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”   
  
“But--”  
  
“I'm stronger than I look.” Honestly, the number of mechs who underestimate him because he's just a medic...   
  
Optimus might be taller than him but Ratchet is stronger by far!   
  
“I trust in your judgment,” Optimus says, ever the one to sound dignified even when his plating is flared because of excess heat and lubricant dribbles in glowing lines down his thighs and his spike bobs from neglect.   
  
“You'd better,” Ratchet grouses but he can't hold on to his annoyance, not when he's cradling Optimus' lovely hips with his hands as those long, long legs wrap around him. And not when his spike bumps the slick rim of Optimus' valve. He shudders.   
  
One of Optimus' hands cup his helm, his thumb stroking Ratchet's bottom lip. “When have I ever doubted you?”   
  
Ratchet nips Optimus' thumb playfully. “All right, all right,” he says, adjusting his grip. “No need to get drippy with me.”   
  
Optimus chuckles, twitching his hips so that his valve dances against the head of Ratchet's spike. “Is that not what I am doing now?”   
  
“You...” Ratchet splutters to Optimus' amusement and tightens his grip on the Prime's hips. “Fine then! You'll let me know if this hurts, yes?”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
Right. Then Ratchet will just.... steady his ventilations and give in to the pleas of his desperate spike. Besides, who knows how much longer they'll be allowed this privacy.   
  
He licks his lips and eases his spike into Optimus' valve, a moan escaping him as he is enveloped in slick, wet heat. His grip tightens on Optimus' hips, his vents blasting open in one slow, steady ventilation. He pauses to savor the sensation, and admittedly, regain control.   
  
Optimus squirms, his valve grasping at Ratchet's spike as though trying to pull him deeper by clenching alone.   
  
“Are we not mimicking the humans?” Optimus gasps, his fingers tightening on Ratchet's shoulders, the metal buckling under his grip.   
  
“To some effect, yes?”   
  
And Optimus gets that curl to his lips, that hidden mischief he so rarely shows. “Then why do you not fuck me, Ratchet,” he purrs.   
  
Somehow, the human curse from Optimus' vocals sends liquid heat shooting to all of Ratchet's extremities. He shudders, charge crackling through his insides and Ratchet narrows his optics.   
  
“If you insist,” he says and snaps his hips up, burying himself fully in Optimus' valve.   
  
He groans to the same note as Optimus, pleasure spiking through his sensory net. He expects Optimus to cry pain but there is only pleasure in his Prime's field.   
  
Optimus' valve clasps at him like something full of need and Ratchet sets up a fast, eager pace. There will be time for slow exploration later, but now, the noise of metal ringing against metal is an intoxicating cadence to his audials.   
  
Optimus grinds down against him, one arm clasped on Ratchet's shoulder, the other braced on the window behind him. He's beautiful like this, lost in pleasure, all sense of dignity abandoned in the wake of flaring vents and crackling charge.   
  
Heat builds in Ratchet's internals like a blazing flame. Optimus' valve responds to his spike as though it has been made for it. It clutches and pulls at him, lubricant dripping from Optimus' valve to soak his thighs and Ratchet's pelvic armor.   
  
One of Optimus' legs drop, pede braced against the ground, but all that does is give Ratchet more leverage. He thrusts up into Optimus, the head of his spike nudging a ceiling node, those nubs catching a buried node. Optimus shouts a garbled word, his grip denting Ratchet's shoulder plating. He frees one hand from Optimus' hips and wraps his fingers around Optimus' spike, hot metal pulsing in his fingers. He can feel it in his specialized sensors, the pulse and throb of cycling transfluid and the rise of charge.   
  
“Ratchet,” Optimus moans, mouth falling open to expel excess heat. His fingers scrabble at the smooth window.   
  
There is nothing quite so intoxicating as the sound of his designation emerging from Optimus' rumbling vocals.   
  
Ratchet groans and wishes there were no height difference between them, that he could pant his desire into Optimus' mouth while they do this. Perhaps later. With the berth.   
  
“Say it again,” he says instead, tightening his grip on Optimus' spike, drinking in Optimus' expression and committing it to memory.   
  
Optimus' plating rattles against his, cooling fans cycling on with a telling whirr. “Which... _Primus_... which part?”   
  
“My name!” Ratchet urges and braces himself, thrusting upward with a mighty enough push to shove Optimus up the window, invoking an audial-wincing shriek.   
  
Optimus' valve clenches down on his, calipers cycling tight, so that with every thrust Ratchet rakes against his sensory nodes. A bitten off cry escapes Optimus, his vents blasting heat and fogging the window. Preflud dribbles from his spike, coating Ratchet's fingers.   
  
“Ratchet,” Optimus rumbles, his thigh pressing hard against Ratchet's hip as he pushes down, forcing Ratchet deeper.   
  
Ratchet shakes and leans forward against Optimus, changing the angle and raking an posterior node he remembers from the last time. Optimus all but keens, arching and writhing in Ratchet's grip, charge a crackle from beneath his plating. His valve calipers grasp at Ratchet's spike.   
  
“Ratchet,” Optimus repeats, better a whine, his heel strut urging Ratchet closer, harder.   
  
Restraint abandons him. He strokes Optimus' spike to an off-rhythm to his thrusts, arousal building and winding within him. His spark pulses, his vents blast heat like a furnace and Optimus' rumbling engine vibrates them both.   
  
“ _Ratchet_.”   
  
He loses it. Ratchet growls and slams into Optimus, overload overtaking him in spurt after spurt of transfluid. He grinds into Optimus, gasping as clenching calipers milk him for every last drop. His plating flares, desperate to dispel excess heat, and Optimus is still squirming, desperate for his own release.   
  
His optics online. “Is that...?”  
  
“ _Not. All_ ,” Ratchet insists and drops his grip on Optimus' thigh. “Put your pede down.”   
  
Thankfully, Optimus has always been good at obeying. He does so and Ratchet lowers himself on wobbling limbs, putting his mouth in perfect height to that dripping, lovely spike, decorated with red and blue biolights. He wastes no time in wrapping his lips and glossa around it, metal hot against his glossa and throbbing with pending release.   
  
Optimus moans and curls over him, hips bucking toward Ratchet's mouth. His hand takes care of the length his mouth can't cover, and his free hand shoves between Optimus' thighs, fingers cursorily tracing the stretched valve rim before two push into the clenching rings.   
  
Ratchet hums encouragement, his glossa teasing the tip of Optimus' spike. His fingers curl, rubbing incessantly against the primary ring of nodes on the inner rim of Optimus' valve. His Prime makes a choked noise, plating rattling, and then Ratchet is rewarded with the music of Optimus' overload. His valve clamps down, laying claim to Ratchet's fingers, and his spike pulses transfluid into Ratchet's mouth.   
  
The oddly sweet-metallic scent is a testament to Knock Out's code-writing skills. He truly had thought of everything, every last bit of sensory requirement. And Ratchet is reaping those benefits as he nurses Optimus through the last spurts of overload. He draws back, licking his lips and gently withdrawing his fingers from Optimus' soaked valve.   
  
And then hands grab him by the collar fairing and haul him upward. Ratchet's startled shout is muffled by Optimus' lips and glossa, indulging him in a messy, hungry kiss.   
  
Mmm. That's what he's been missing.   
  
Ratchet's sticky hands grope at Optimus' armor, leaving a mess behind that he gleefully recalls they won't have to clean.   
  
“I trust you enjoyed?” Ratchet asks around a barrage of Optimus kisses, not that he is the least bit unhappy with them.   
  
Optimus' engine purrs, the vibrations buzzing against Ratchet's plating with invitation. “Indeed. I feel the sudden urge to return the favor.”   
  
Ratchet's grin is too wide to be held by his mouth. “By all means,” he invites and yelps as Optimus tackles him to the floor.  
  
They never do make it to the berth.   
  


****


End file.
